


The Resident

by you_aint_my_dad



Category: The Knick (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood and Gore - Surgical, Canon-Typical Violence, Doctors & Physicians, Drug Abuse - Both Evident and Implied, F/M, Other, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-show, Teacher-Student Relationship, post-show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24161014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_aint_my_dad/pseuds/you_aint_my_dad
Summary: Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr., from his first day at the Knick to his last — and then some, through the eyes of himself and his colleagues.Revised and Updated from the FF.Net story, of which I no longer have access to.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Thackery - May 16, 1899

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Good Doctor](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/619501) by Me, a long time ago.. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. John W. Thackery schemes to acquire a new surgical apprentice. 
> 
> No specific warnings aside from the vague reference to drug abuse which, given the very nature of John Thackery, will be a frequent warning in itself.

#### Thackery

##### May 16, 1899

* * *

The Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Garden was a charming sight this time of year; narrow tidy paths shaded by full-green trees, bordered by a panorama of picturesque university buildings. Sat outside on the balcony attached to one of the refurbished surgical service's offices, the Deputy Chief of Surgery at the Knickerbocker Hospital, Dr. John W. Thackery, took in the quaint summer atmosphere with a glass of scotch in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.

On a Saturday afternoon, it's quiet, slogging heat burning off into a pleasant cooler breeze. Its easy to sit out and enjoy oneself. To look upon the river and relax, even if just for a little while.

But Thackery was not here to wax lyrical about New York and its charming uptown architecture and stifling hot summers, not quite.

He was here to commit professional larceny.

"Best students this year?" Dr. Reinhart Koff was a wide set German man with a balding crop of blonde hair and an exemplary grasp of English. He'd been in New York for maybe two years and was a leading expert in vascular surgery, a favourite drinking partner of Christensen's whom Thackery had been introduced on afterthought at a conference last year. They were familiar with each other's work. "Well, of course. You've likely seen the tables, sir."

The man lit John's cigarette in an idle act of courtesy, then his own.

Thack for one did not usually smoke and he feared his aversion to the whole thing was obvious. He was no stranger to the common vices, of course, it was just he was out of practice. This casual not-quite-work talk was wasted on him. He felt restless, out of place. This was no Circus to amaze and astound, and while he did not rebuff when offered, taking a swig of his scotch automatically, he was uncomfortable. Eager, too. In one swell of heaving impatience, he shifted awkwardly in Koff's rickety little balcony chair and frowned at the man.

"I don't care about those," he waved the hand that was holding his cigarette aimlessly, dismissing the whole idea. "I'm interested in what students you found to be the best. Surgically."

"Any particular area?" Koff made an exaggerated noise of discomfort as he sat down. His chair creaked loudly in protest.

Thack thought about it for a moment, indistinctly. Always the question — Thackery was a renowned Jack of All Trades, and he supposes that makes him harder to pin down. "It doesn't matter where they wield the surgical knife – I'll teach them as things occur, so long as they have talent."

"In that case, my list of recommendations will differ, but why not pilfer someone from one of the local hospitals? At least they're most-part experienced."

Dr. Thackery leaned against his armrest.

Why not indeed? It was what most people expected — it was what the board back at the Knickerbocker all but told him to do, or, the Captain, who did not entirely understand the nuances of actual medical practice other than the importance of names and titles. Theirs, especially.

There were plenty of doctors out there who would suffer even the Knick if it meant working under the great Christensen and Thackery, the Captain had told him. Finger pointed, sage-like, but without the academic power of his real mentor, thus prompting Thackery to take the man's word thinly.

 _On a cheap wage, too,_ Barrow had added. That pretty much sealed the deal right there.

Do you know what was cheap? Thackery had wanted to say — and intended to, once everything was said and done and he had his quarry seized firmly in both hands. Medical interns. Quarter a dozen, these days, and _very willing_.

"We're missing a fourth surgeon and there is no way on God's green Earth that Christensen or I will tolerate whatever quack Barrow or Habershorn scrapes up from their society pages." That was the very basics of it. "Reality is, if you want surgeons with certain habits, you have to pass them on yourself."

"Ah, so that's your criteria. You want to ruin some young up and comer with your terrible influence, turn them into a mini-me madman."

Thackery feigned offence. "Why, whatever do you mean, Reinhart?"

"As much as I wish to protect the youngsters from you and your unorthodoxy, there's nothing really wrong with what you're suggesting." Koff conceded, after a moment of hesitation. "In that case, I do have some good news for you."

"Oh?"

"Out of the class this academic year there are about five young men who I think would fit the bill, but two, in particular, I think you'll like. Dr. Ferguson from Chicago and Dr. Chickering fr-"

The effect was immediate. Thackeray sprung up as if suddenly enlightened.

" _Chickering?_ "

Koff raised both of his eyebrows at the sudden outburst. Thack meanwhile leaned forward onto his elbows, and clarified, just to be extra sure.

"Dr. Bertram Chickering?"

"Dr. Bertram Chickering _Junior_." Koff smiled at Thackery, slowly as realisation dawned. "You know his father, I presume. I recall a bit of a spat."

A _spat_ was an understatement. Thack dragged on the end of his cigarette and gave Koff the side-eye.

Thackery knew Dr. Bertram Chickering Sr., yes. That was putting it lightly. They'd had an on and off disagreement for the past ten years. Ever since Thack came back from Nicaragua it had weaned and intensified depending on their general proximity, but it was always there.

One small mention by name in a theoretical paper regarding malignant growths and their transfer within the bloodstream by Thackery - which most men would take as a compliment, though Chickering was both contentious and smart enough to know better, and that's precisely why Thackery loved to torment him so - and they were well set in their contest. Christensen had made it into a joke, naturally, but that didn't make it any less real.

He'd completely forgotten the fact that Chickering's son was at Columbia University. It got Thackery thinking.

"Tell me about him."

"Well, he's one our visiting physicians and a boxer who in your defence snapped Dr. Bellamy's jawbone clean into two..."

Thackery groaned. "I meant the progeny."

"Junior isn't much like his father, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know." Koff shrugged. "We get a lot of his sort here; crème de la crème second and third-generation doctors. They usually start opening up practices."

Thackery glanced at Koff and then back at his cigarette. "And Junior falls into that category?"

"I'd say so, though personally, I think he's a bit too good to be wasted on house calls." The German replied. "Sure, he's young - they all are - but he's got all the makings of a decent enough surgeon, given time."

"You're not giving me any reason to not go chasing after him, Doctor." Thackery noted, his tone of voice feeling a little strange. He immediately cleared his throat.

"In that case, let me give you the bad news. He's already spoken for. Presbyterian Hospital has offered him an internship. I imagine his father had something to do with it. Bellevue, too."

That was a promising sign.

"No reason I can't intervene." Thack declared, easily confident, as he was in most things.

Koff shrugged again. "Sure."

Thackery picked up his glass to ponder the possibilities. If he didn't take the opportunity now that he had it, it could be years before his next chance. Christensen had chosen him, Gallinger had been picked up by the Board of Directors just over two years ago. Now there was a new opening and Jules had given unofficial authority to Thack in regard to their next candidate.

And Thack did not want a seasoned professional like the board was insisting. They didn't believe him when he told them; currency these days was shifting towards training doctors. Halstead's revolutionary strategy for residency and internship wasn't just something Thackery wholeheartedly agreed with; he wanted in on the effort.

He didn't want someone tainted by rules and bureaucratic procedure, bogged down by rigidity to the point of inflexibility, to stagnation. No, he wanted someone young, with drive, with talent, yes, but _young_.

Someone malleable, who could be brought up into the profession thinking that progress was an endless path of trial and triumph, not merely the means to an end. Thack knew all too well — a doctor's time spent learning and researching and experimenting wasn't over when he finally got comfortable with his skills, when things got easy. It never ended. There was always more to learn. So, so much more.

How many years had Thack spent floundering under the wing of inept, detached clinicians? Caring not for the advancement of medical science but just the profession at its barest values. Wanting to desperately grow and change and develop but being held back at every turn. Until Christensen.

Until the Knick.

He often imagined what someone could do if you gave them that freedom and momentum from the get-go. Imagined what _he_ could have done. Now, he had that opportunity.

Thackery stared Koff down and demanded, resolute. "Tell me the worst of it."

Koff sighed and rubbed at his wide forehead. "Aside from the fact that Dr. Chickering Sr. will tear your arms off for so much as looking in his son's direction? You'd terrify the poor boy."

Thack frowned back, peevish. "I'm the perfect gentleman."

" _Rii-iight_ , and I'm the King of Prussia." Koff snorted. "He's too... How to put it..? Reasonable?"

"Too reasonable?"

"You gravitate to go-getters. Junior's inoffensive. Maybe I'll even go as far as to say a pushover. If I hadn't taught him half of what he knows I'd think him a bit of a dope."

"But he is intelligent." Thack decided, refilling his drink.

"I'd say so. Sheltered, but not stupid. Very cunning when he wants to be – he just doesn't, most of the time," the other doctor frowned in thought. "Took him about thirty seconds to completely grasp the concept behind your J.M. Christensen's placenta repair and yet when I ask him to improvise he stares at me as if I'd insulted him. The boy has some of the rawest talent for conceptual innovation I've seen in years, he just doesn't know it."

It sounded too good to be true. So much so that Thackery was almost suspicious. "And you're trying to stop me?"

"I'm trying to warn you about the realities of mentorship. Boy might be smart, might have a healthy appetite for curiosity, but he's young, even for his age. You go throwing yourself at him in your entire manic glory and I guarantee he'll run in the opposite direction. He's _normal_ , Thack. You forget whose son he is."

He had a point, Thack supposed. Fine then. "So I'll be gentle at first. Any last glaring faults?"

"The boy's likeable."

"How is _that_ a concern?"

Koff shook his head as if Thack was being deliberately obtuse.

"Because he'll wrap you around his little finger like-" he snapped his fingers together. " - _that_. I know what you're like, what you and Christensen are both like. You'll fall head over heels for him, fail to discipline him properly, overindulge him and make a complete monster, inflicting upon us unsuspecting lesser surgeons a horrific mirage of Thackery-impressed brilliance and polite, protestant charm. God forbid. None of us will be safe, least of all you. You'll never want to let him go."

Despite the half-warning, Koff wasn't being totally serious. Thackery bit back the laugh and nodded. Now was not the time for laughing at his own expense.

There was work to be done.

"Let me ask you one last question. If I was to get my hands on him for a talk, would you think reigning him into the Knick would still be possible?"

Koff did not reply straight away. Instead, he puffed on the end of his cigarette until it began to smoulder near his fingers.

"He's a good doctor," The German said eventually, putting the cigarette out by grinding it into the balcony, which he then flicked mindlessly over to the street below. "But he'd be wasted in general practice."

"So you approve?"

"Approve of what?" Koff asked, folding one leg over the other and settling down with his glass. "You haven't requested anything yet."

Thackery stubbed his own cigarette out into the nearby ashtray and drained the rest of his drink in one go.

"That's right." He shot back, standing up. "I _haven't_."


	2. Thackery - May 19, 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. John Thackery meets, and recruits, (and horrifies,) Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr.
> 
> Aside from the deep mortified embarrassment of poor unsuspecting Bertie, there's not much in the way of warnings. Another hint to Thackery's drug habit and many references to a prior alcohol binge. Students are regularly stupid, what can I say.

#### Thackery

##### May 19, 1899

* * *

Dr. Bertram J. Chickering Jr. took the form of a condensed, affable looking copy of his namesake.

Which would be hilarious, if not for the fact that said namesake was stalking around the room somewhere that the sainted offspring himself looked as if was about to spew up his breakfast at a moment's notice.

Indeed, Chickering Junior did not look well at all, but then, Dr. Thackery was not without pity in that regard. He occasionally looked back upon his own university days and their subsequent celebrations fondly and, having since long survived them, he felt, lived to be the wiser.

 _Mostly_.

Dr. Chickering, at least, seemed to be heavily atoning for whatever ill-advised revelry he'd participated in the night before. Thack tracked him down to a quiet corner of an off-side room during the reception of the Class of 1899's graduation dinner. An inviting little space, where one might try to collect oneself without any loud noises, bright sunlight or intense summer heat. Relief from what was certainly a terrible skull-splitting headache.

It's an adequate spot to recover after being so severely overserved in any case, but most importantly, it was _private_. Well out of the way. Thackery, trying to look inconspicuous in his dress whites, walked over with the intention of ruining the boy's pursuit of peace and quiet once the coast was clear.

His target was looking upon a painting of a man with an oversized moustache when Thack got close enough for conversation.

"Friedrich Nietzsche, I see."

It was only until he spoke that Dr. Chickering actually noticed him. The younger man nearly jumped out of his own skin at the unexpected intrusion, spinning around on the spot, wide-eyed and baffled.

Face to face, Thackery looked down at the overgrown candidate for second communion and wondered if he was ever that _young_ looking at his own graduation, all those years ago. True, Chickering was younger seeming due to his size and general complexion — a fair bit shorter and baby faced than conventional, certainly, more cute than dignified all dressed up in white-tie finery, but Thack couldn't help but get the impression he was faced with a boy playing doctor, as opposed to a newly graduated physician.

That is until Dr. Chickering's posture shifted. Then Thack noticed the constrained bulk and stature of the amateur athlete. No slouching, no leaning.

Under a scruffy jaw in want of a shave, Dr. Chickering regarded Thackery head-on. His mouth settled into a thin, disturbed line, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to place Thackery, to put a name to a face.

It was a familiar expression. Thack had been right in his first impression. Bertram Junior took on from his father in more than just his colouring and mannerisms. He'll grow into the man's face as he gets older. Not completely, just more.

"I.. beg your pardon?" Dr. Chickering asked, completely bewildered, yet somehow managing immaculate politeness.

And that was where all resemblance ended, it seemed. Young Bertram here had not inherited his father's stern unflinching exterior. Quite the opposite.

Thackery pointed at the painting. "The fellow you were so admiring there."

Judging by the side-eye glance Chickering gave it, he wasn't a great enthusiast of the arts. Or German philosophers with extreme facial hair.

Almost as quickly as he looked at it, he then did so away. Clearly did not care at all. "Right. Yes. Of course."

Thack shot him an amused smile and extended his hand in greeting.

"Dr. John Thackery." He introduced himself.

Then savoured the immediate look of horror that Dr. Chickering let slip when he recognised him and his name.

The boy inhaled, too sharp, and glanced knowingly to the left into the other room where Dr. Chickering Sr. was standing — and of course, _of course_ , he knows. For a split moment, Thack wondered if the boy was about to flee then and there, but etiquette and bravery appeared to win out.

Chickering Junior shook Thack's hand and returned the smile, if a little more fixedly.

"Dr. Bertram Chickering." He replied. Then added as an afterthought. " _Junior_."

"I'm very aware. Dr. Koff speaks highly of you."

In any other instance, this might have been a relief to some people, perhaps a present surprise, but apparently, this made Chickering all the more alarmed. Maybe it was just a surprise; off tangent from what he was normally used to. Some semblance of _I know your father_ , perhaps. But this wasn't about Chickering Sr., no. This was about the boy. Like it or not, Thack wanted this here youngster's apparent aptitude more than he wanted to poke the stick at his old man.

Doesn't mean he can't do both at the same time. Thack watched the boy readjust, watch him carefully regard him as one complete entity, from his boots to the vague region of his face. Then Chickering nodded as if it finally made sense.

"Thank you. And him, you, too," he admitted with a surprising amount of very genuine respect. "Your work with Dr. Christensen is... Incredible. Dr. Koff made certain to include it in his demonstrations, you know. He follows your advancements closely."

So the young man knew enough about what they did at the Knick to not take his father's word at face value. Thackery was immediately pleased.

"I mean- y'know." Dr. Chickering must have taken Thack's silence for disapproval, for he carried on, a little desperately. "The Thackery Point for your location of the appendix and its subsequent safe removal. We've practised on cadavers, naturally, but I got to assist in surgery once – I mean, not – not on the surgical team, proper, I... Just. I just _helped_. To not go borrowing through the intestines, just follow the directions and, _there_. Remarkable, really."

Dr. Thackery leaned over and asked, as casually as possible while trying not to stare the younger doctor down in obsessive interest. "And, uh, it succeeded?"

The younger man nodded, momentarily forgetting any prior discomfort in the face of an interesting and, it seems, well-known subject. "The laparoscopic appendectomy succeeded, yes. There was an aftercare issue, I believe, but that wasn't on the fault of the procedure. Your work was invaluable, as I'm sure you've already heard."

Thackery shrugged in an attempt to appear humble.

"It's all in service to the world at large," Thack replied, meaning it, though he'll admit any humility he was trying to achieve was failing spectacularly in the face of having his hard-won work so graciously praised.

But - _no_. Thack was here to charm a potential apprentice, not the other way around. Taking a swig of his champagne and carefully noting Chickering's evident ability to win him over in the space of roughly three sentences, he continued on with his intended goal.

"Which begs the question, what are you intending to do now that you've-" Thackery waved a hand around the room. "-come out the other side unscathed?"

The important question. Dr. Chickering glanced back in the vague direction of his father before dragging his gaze back across the floor.

Ah, so an unwelcome one also. _Very interesting._

"Well... Presbyterian offers some... certain opportunities." Dr. Chickering attempted, diplomatically. It sounded like a lame and off-script version of a usually very well-rehearsed answer. "And of course, I imagine, chances to start my own practice down the line."

Of course. Thackery sighed in muted frustration and shot a singular thin glare toward Dr. Chickering Sr's turned back. Of course, the man wouldn't want his so-important namesake wandering too far, doing anything remotely of scientific value.

No, Thack knew all too well. A safe career in a safe, well-connected hospital in aid of one day establishing a safe, affluent practice. From where Thackery imagined the boy will safely undertake every single pre-described life goal until he's retired with grandchildren fifty years down the line.

He cast a searching look over the younger man. He's what? Twenty-three? Four? Christ, Thack wanted to cry, let the boy live a little.

Instead of doing that, he hummed under his breath and recited. "It is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say ' _Father, as it please you_ '."

Chickering blinked. "I'm sorry?"

So not a literature fan, either. There's a shame. Thack shrugged again. "Oh, I have a Shakespeare habit."

That, apparently, was not sufficient enough of an explanation, because the boy somehow managed to look even more perplexed then he did before. Thack elected to drag the conversation back to the matter at heart lest he mystified Chickering entirely.

"Dr. Koff says you were one of his better students when it came to the surgical field and if he had you assisting in an appendectomy before you were even out of the university, I dare say I believe him."

"Oh, _that_." Bertram Junior grimaced. "Like I said it wasn't- I _helped_."

"Ah, yes. Helped." Thackery rolled his eyes. "Regardless, I imagined that might be something you'd want to take up. Surely a man your talent and, uh, education might want to work in that field, no? Sounds like you put a lot of effort into learning about it. See the way I figure, Dr. Chickeri-"

Dr. Chickering's eyes suddenly narrowed, expression both hungry and desperate at once and Thack, staring at him, instantly lost his train of thought.

"Cardiothoracics." The younger man replied to the point of interrupting, too quickly. And, oh.

 _Oh_.

"Thoracic surgery?" Thackery reiterated, very, very gently.

"I- there's some..." Chickering stammered, off-balance and therefore panicking. Yes, Thack thought, definitely off-script. Someone ought to teach this one to lie better. Thackery was a good liar. Thackery could teach him that. "I mean, fellowships are starting up in that area and I figured one day-"

One day. Thack sighed again. The fact that the younger man was intelligent - and, likely talented - enough to even entertain the possibility of an intricate specific area of study this early on was very promising. Thack quashed the urge to get excited, to focus not on the distant possibilities but the impending issue at hand.

It was difficult. This here boy might just be the one he needed. Thackery did not know wherever to praise Koff to the high heavens, to damn him, or be suspicious of any motives. Maybe Koff was just good at his job. Maybe he knew Thackery well enough after all.

"Let me stop you right there, doctor, and be frank with you." Thackery stepped closer. Chickering managed some socially acceptable half-lean, half-step backwards. "I came here to make you an offer, for a position on our surgical team as an intern."

The younger man's discomfort ground to a halt. Instead of getting disapproval as he had likely expected, Thackery had given him something else. His face smoothed out, guarded, but thoughtful.

"You did?"

"Yes."

"Me?"

"Yes, Dr. Chickering. _You_."

He must assume that Thack is joking, because he laughed, though it sounded more out of pent up tension than any real amusement. Dr. Thackery was too good at the game to smile or raise an eyebrow or frown or respond visibly. Instead, he just waited it out.

"I- I don't know what to say." Dr. Chickering admitted, eventually. "But surely there are more experienced surgeons out there who'd be much better suited."

Dr. Thackery shook his head and downed the rest of his champagne in one complete go. He watched the boy watch him back, watched him trace Thack's half-bouncing, his rhythm. Watched him do it uneasily, but with interest, and decided that the game was still very much on. Chickering hadn't given him an outright no, just deflected. A symptom of self-doubt than real lack of ability — which could be remedied, with the right influences.

Thack can work with this.

"I don't want experience," Thackery informed him, bluntly, opting for a slightly stronger approach, testing his limits. "I want someone who's got skill, but who can gain experience with us, who can stand on our shoulders and one day make something of themselves without any pointless bureaucratic nonsense getting in the way."

He pointed at Dr. Chickering.

"You came out of Columbia here, according to Dr. Koff, with a rare aptitude for surgical procedure. Surely it'd be a disservice to everyone to waste your talents diagnosing the middle class with the mundane and ordinary, day in day out."

"Well- I mean-"

Thackery stepped forward again and could see the boy intending on stepping back entirely, but he was blocked by the table right behind them. When his back hit the edge, Dr. Chickering glanced over his shoulder and immediately cringed away from it.

There, boxed in between the precariously placed glasses and his newly acquired inquisitor, the boy could only stand, trying to not hunch down in discomfort as Thackery loomed right above him.

"At the Knick, we work tirelessly to breach the bounds of known medical science." Thackery made a quick, just-to-be-sure glance over towards where Bertram Sr. was standing, then returned his attention back to the younger doctor. "We also have a belief, Dr. Christensen and I, that one-on-one apprenticeships are the best way to create talented future doctors. He took me under his wing sixteen years ago and now, I want to take on someone of my own."

Aside from the astounded horror of being singled out like this, the younger man did not instantly turn him down. Instead, he muttered some nonsense words that were vaguely disagreeable and therefore of no real argumentative worth.

"But- you don't, you haven't-"

"And if I'm wrong you can go skipping back to Columbia," Thackery groaned in that tired, overreacting way people do when dealing with someone who was being overdramatic and matching their tone quid pro quo. Dr. Chickering very nearly looked affronted.

 _Good_. So there was a bit of his father's ire in there.

"But until I get you in an operating room, I don't know."

Two men walked by them, to take a different corner of the same room. It burst the momentary illusion that they were alone and while neither of the newcomers looked at them with any real interest, it was still an unwelcome intrusion. Keenly aware of the two new presences, Junior squared himself off, posture adjusting to something a little less pathetic.

It left Thack to shift his jaw and step back, to put some space between them so it no longer looked like he was about to seize the younger man. Instead, he tried again, a little more gently and a little more direct.

"Dr. Chickering, I'm offering you a position at the Knick as one of our junior surgeons, as my surgical apprentice. It's really that simple."

"Just like that?" The younger man asked back, weary.

"Just like that. Koff is a hard man to win the approval of, and nothing about what he told me suggested that you'd be a bad fit. Nothing you said today did, either."

Chickering was about to correct him on that but an agitated hand gesture cut him off.

"It also makes me very surprised that you weren't thrown into a surgical residency against your will. We need surgeons now more than ever."

And that was the truth of it — a truth that Dr. Chickering apparently knew, given the contemplative look he returned.

Oh, Thackery is certain he knew what was wrong. He knew Dr. Chickering Sr., knew the man's... _stubborn tendencies_. He had no doubt that the man had tirelessly and forcibly constructed an entire plan of action for his son to follow from the moment he was born.

It's in the name, after all.

He also knew that the Knick was a poor man's hospital; that the majority of its patients were treated by the so-called generosity of the health department. Presbyterian wasn't much better in that regard, true, but it was closely connected with Columbia and, given how many times he'd seen Dr. Chickering Sr. conversing with the surgeons at Presbyterian Hospital over the years, it had many connections and working relationships a young medical professional like Bertram Jr. would find invaluable. The social connection part of their work was often as important as the research and the skill. It was how many men got research partners, how they got in on new discoveries before the rest.

The Knickerbocker meanwhile was owned by a society man and shipping magnate. Thack knew that Robertson was keeping the doors open by sheer force of will and more charity than not. The Knick's only pull in terms of medical importance was that of the capability and acclaim of its surgeons. The madness and attraction of its senior surgical staff. The _circus_.

If Thack and Christensen weren't there, well.

It was not the sort of place Columbia University's Bertram Chickering Jr. would be picking as a last option, let alone a first one.

So, he is surprised when the young man just looked at him, a little too hard and declared, abruptly:

"Would you rather I just... came in, or? I mean- Just to, you know. Talk about it. I don't know if you do tests like at Bellevue."

Thackery went from astonishment to genuine excitement in the space of about half a second.

"We don't. I'll tell Barrow that we're expecting you," Thack replied, shocked and pleased and, maybe a little relieved. He'd done it. In the space of one ten minute conversation, he'd got what he came for. Or close enough.

The Board was going to hate him for _weeks_.

"Pop down, take a look at our facilities, meet the staff. You don't have to make a decision right away. Although, Dr. Chickering... I'm offering a position that will put you at the threshold of medical discovery in New York, America as a whole – maybe even the whole world." Dr. Thackery stopped fidgeting. He stood up straight and gave the boy a long, considering look. "I won't make it easy for you to just decline."

Dr. Chickering threw him an odd look. "What are you going to do, wrestle me into a surgeon's gown against my will?"

It was a bold attempt at humour, said by a man who was slowly growing bolder. Thackery actually laughed. "If it comes to that."

That was apparently the right response to make, for the boy looked a little more at ease. Thack slapped him on the arm.

"I'll see you soon then, Dr. Chickering."

And that was that. No, I hope I see you soon, or, I better see you soon — just the smug, pleased assertion that Dr. Chickering would do just that. Because of course he will.

Thack had a good feeling about this one.


	3. Bertie - May 20, 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Chickering joins the Knick and faces the immidate consequences.
> 
> No specific warnings this time!

#### Bertie

##### May 20, 1899

* * *

See, back in his day, Father was a fistfighter.

Colligate pugilism mostly — followed by one incident involving another doctor, who was apparently, and he quotes, _asking for it_. Bertie did not know most of the details as was fitting, but the evidence was there, all the same.

It's in the older man's body language. When threatened, he starts to load up on his left hand; he shuffled his feet and set his stance when moving against another person when he got tense. He was ready to fight even before he thought about it, regardless or not wherever he'd even consider it in the first place. Wherever or not it was proper.

Bertie tried to emulate his father's mettle most days, but given the very real undercurrent of anxiety running hot and frantic through his bloodstream right at this moment, he was certain he was not pulling it off very well.

For some reason, they insisted on having him meet them in the operating room.

Outwardly, John Thackery is not much. Tall, but he's also rumpled and underweight. Handsome, sure, in that crazy unrefined sort of way, but twitchy. Fueled with boundless energy and a desire to _progress_ and _work_ and _move_ and _talk_ , a sense of fervour that Bertie is just flat out not used to. He's fanatical. Utterly manic.

He was a raging storm of action from the moment Bertie stepped into the threshold. He walked too quickly, shouted too loud, spoke too fast, waved his arms around too much and matters are not helped in the slightest when Bertie realised, with immense displeasure, that he's exactly face height of most of the man's more outlandish hand gestures.

After nearly getting socked in the face one too many times for comfort, Bertie desperately sought out some semblance of safety by rounding the operating table and, as tactfully as possible, attempting to keep it between them. He stood there, holding onto all of his necessary - and currently neglected - paperwork and wondered if this was normal.

Bertie was out of his depth when the man cornered him a day ago. Now, in his element, Dr. Thackery is a whole different beast to have to face head-on, yet nobody appeared to think it odd.

Judging by the complete and utter lack of surprise on Christensen's face, it was nothing unusual.

Dr. Jules Christensen himself was a bit more sedate, but only in the physical sense. He had that lounging, pronounced power of a resting predator. At ease and amused, he stared at Bertie with casual curiosity, as if he wasn't a professional new physician intending to join his surgical team but rather a new junior member of his Saturday rowing club. Interested, but unconcerned.

This was his territory, after all.

Christensen, as the Chief of Surgery, was supposed to be the one to interview Bertie, test him and generally gauge his chances, but throughout the entire extent of this so-called application process, Dr. Chickering quickly became aware that it wasn't really Christensen at all. The man's general lack of concern and the way he barely glanced at Bertie's paperwork spoke volumes.

No, it was all Thackery. Christiensen was there to observe and ask random questions ranging from the upsettingly _vague how is your pharmacology?_ to the sly, _how long can you crank a suction machine for?_ to the hyper-specific _what are the phylogenic processes or functions that impart to the living human body and it's vital resistance or immunity?_ or, perhaps most concerningly, _tell me, boy, how many patients have you seen die under the knife?_

Everything else was down to the Deputy Chief. Which was to say, also very little.

All Thackey had done was drag Bertie around the hospital on an impromptu tour, casually throw his name at a multitude of uniformed strangers, who neither knew Bertie nor what his supposed purpose was. He asked very little about what Bertie had done at Columbia, proclaimed to be uninterested in paper tests. He asserted - twice - that it wouldn't matter much in the long run.

And from there it was back to the operating room.

It's nothing like Father had prepared him for, but then again, all that quizzing and instruction and advice was for Presbyterian and Bellevue. You know, normal hospitals.

Not... Whatever unholy lunacy this was.

Christensen glanced at Bertie after he finally took the sheath of papers, folding them thrice and stuffing them into his trouser pocket. Bertie, to stop himself from saying anything, clenched his jaw and looked away.

The man saw it regardless and tilted his head. Christensen had taken great amusement in Bertie's predicament so far, to the point of inflicting distress himself, perhaps just for the fun of it. If he wasn't such a resounding genius in the theatre - if both of them weren't - Bertie had reasoned he'd have hightailed it by now, put as much distance between these insane tormentors and himself as humanly possible and never look back.

But they _are_ geniuses, and despite all of Christensen's sharp-edged curiosity, he wasn't pushing Bertie away, either. This sort of teasing was inclusionary.

"You came third in your year?" He asked, leaning against the partition between the observational area and the operating floor. He looked at Bertie over the tops of his spectacles, eyes glistening, and the younger doctor felt that giving him a truthful answer was the wrong choice to make.

That speaking at all was the wrong choice to make.

Thackery was content to speak for both of them. He waved his hands at the bald, squinting one and made a displeased noise. "Those tests don't matter."

"Then what does?" The comment was sarcastic. Christensen looked at Thackery, pointedly, with his eyebrows raised and the sly grin exploded into full force. It left Bertie with the impression that he was sort of... intruding.

"Surgical aptitude, Jules. Drive. Desire . It's one thing for us to fight on the path of progress, but as we know that progress will inevitably end if we don't have others ready to take it on in the future. It's long time that we extend that knowledge to our younger generation. Those who in, what? Ten, twenty years time, will be the ones on the forefront of medical evolution. You know, when we're all old and senile and can't be taken seriously."

"So you're going to make a worthy heir out of Chickering," the man sighed at Dr. Thackery, still amused, but knowing. Knowing something — something Bertie didn't, who just stood there, the subject of the conversation but also simultaneously barred from participating in it. "Well. God help me if I deny you anything, Thack. I'll be sure to flutter my eyelashes at the Captain - though what about Gallinger?"

"What about him?" Thackery asked back, sliding his hands over his waistcoat as if looking for something, once, twice, until he realised that whatever he was looking for was not on his person.

He immediately began looking for his jacket. Bertie thought he might have seen it hung over one of the chairs, but he didn't want to interrupt, and therefore said nothing.

"Last I checked, er-" It wasn't under the papers, or the table itself. Thackery spun around on his feet, eyes tracking. "-the board demanded you take him. Ergo, he is your protégé."

"That was before you charmed him and stole him from right under my nose." Christensen deadpanned.

At Bertie's look of confusion, Thackery winked at him. "Well, you can have him back, now that I've got one of my own."

"Judging by the clandestine nature of today's appointment," Dr. Christensen replied. "I think you've got a penchant for thieving our junior colleagues. Should I start warning people?"

"Oh come now Jules, don't oversell my roguery. I'll be too busy passing on every single one of my bad habits to Dr. Chickering Sr's sainted son here to steal anyone else."

Both men laughed and Bertie - wisely, he felt - did not say anything in regard to that little sentiment. It was something he'd have to get used to, he feared. It wasn't the first time he'd seen or heard about Father and Thackery's... well. A rivalry would suggest mutual one-upmanship.

 _Dislike_. That was a safe word to use.

Christensen smacked Bertie on the shoulder as he walked on by, starting for the doorway and beyond, the corridor. The younger doctor watched his retreating back until it disappeared behind the flapping doors, internally despairing.

That was another thing to get used to. What was it with these people and the constant touching? It was like they couldn't help themselves; they've got to go put their hands on the short, cute one.

Dr. Thackery was the worst offender by far. Having found his jacket, the man shrugged it on in one smooth motion and clapped his hands together loudly. He then gestured to the operating room.

"So, Dr. Chickering, what do you think of our circus ring?"

There were many ways that Bertie could reply to that, but there was only really one pressing thing on his mind. He turned around to regard Thackery and opted for truthfulness.

"It's unorthodox."

That made Thackery laugh. "Well, God forbid if we were ever orthodox around here. Though it says a lot less about us and a little something about you."

"Me?"

"Well, you're still here." Thackery pressed both of his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels distractedly. "And I'm sure I don't have to tell you that working here will be no small trial. As Christensen was so inclined to inform me, all those years ago; the days are long and our progress, monumental as it may be, is slow. You'll be worked to the bone, I assure you."

"I figured as much." Bertie shrugged. He wasn't sure what else to say. "My father... Well. He mentioned it."

Thackery smirked. "Mentioned it, did he?"

Bertie by no means made protecting his father's honour one of his main responsibilities; the man was more than capable of doing that himself, but something about this specific instance prompted him to do just that.

"I grew up in a practice, Doctor." Bertie clarified. "And while I wasn't subject to the worst of it, even at Columbia... He, uh. He made it quite clear what the Knick would be like. Didn't feel the need to forgo any details."

"Of course he didn't." The man sighed, with - and this surprised Bertie - a real undertone of actual recollection. "Well, only time will tell then."

"Wasn't I supposed to..." Bertie shrugged, helplessly. "Be interviewed?"

 _Normally_ , he does not say.

Presbyterian had been so standard Bertie had come out of it underwhelmed after everything was said and done. At the Knick, he was expecting something a little rigorous — Thackery did not know him as well as the people in Presbyterian or Columbia did, after all. All they had to go off was his test scores and word of mouth from people like Dr. Koff, who was an uncommonly gracious man as it was. Dr. Thackery couldn't be that desperate for a surgical intern that he'd just strongarm Bertie onto their team without... knowing.

"The only interview I need with you Dr. Chickering is to see you in action in the operating theatre," Thackery replied as he checked his watch. "Which, if you're willing to stay until half three, we can manage. We have a scheduled cholecystectomy over on the men's ward."

Bertie, who was not expecting to have to assist in an operating room until at least several weeks down the line, was left feeling pensive at that development.

Dr. Thackery raised both of his eyebrows at the pause. "Never had to handle a gallbladder removal?"

That was not the issue Bertie was thinking about. He recoiled, confused. "N-no. I mean- I've _seen_ it be done before."

"All the better." The man declared, and all of a sudden, Bertie's concerns were no longer relevant. "Dr. Chickering, I'm about to amaze you - we've been experimenting with an anterograde method recently, a little more advanced but-"

When Bertie did not immediately follow Thackery's lead out the door, the man doubled back and wrapped his arm around the younger doctor's shoulder. It was a more forceful gesture then Bertie was expecting, and if not for the significant difference in their respective heights, he would have easily stumbled. In this instance, all he could do is helplessly scramble along.

"Well, why not dive in at the deep end? I'm sure you can handle it."

Bertie was hardly certain about _that_ , but unable to nod with his head wrenched against the crook of Thackery's arm, he made a grunting noise of vague agreement anyway.

Thackeray did not miss it. He laughed.

"Glad to hear it, Dr. Chickering. Glad to hear it."

* * *

And he can handle it. Well enough, anyway.

When all is said and done, when Bertie accepted his new job at the Knick with a stunned handshake and a healthy dose of apprehension, he learned two things:

One, Dr. John Thackery is a madman, yes — but an _ingenious_ one.

Two, causing one's father to borderline pulmonary aspirate during dinner is a bad idea.

It was not how Bertie intended to break the news. If he'd had his way, he wouldn't have told Father for at least a day or so, but he knew, the longer he put it off the more Father would get suspicious and the likelihood of him hearing something from Presbyterian increased.

If nothing else, he thought, he'd rather Father heard it from him than them. That wouldn't be cowardly. It was what a real man would do. Problem was, Bertie knew how important this, all of this, was to Father; and while he knows objectively that this is something he _wants_ , he also cannot help but feel... wrong.

He's a grown man yes, but...

The Knick goes against the plan, as it were.

Bertie did not say anything for a long time. Not when he came home and not when they finally sat down for dinner. He pushed his vegetables around his plate with little enthusiasm, which of course Mother noticed and resulted in many a _what's wrong now_ look over her glass, which Bertie did not have the bravery to face, let alone deflect.

Clara is in good spirits, mostly because Father was in a good mood himself and too absorbed with his eldest child to properly concentrate on his youngest. It's not until her third jibe in as many minutes that Father even speaks up to give reprimand, and then, it was barely a warning at that.

Not that he ever did. His sister, Bertie is sure, could insult President McKinley to his face and Father probably wouldn't even raise his voice. _Figures_.

It's not fair, Bertie wanted to complain, and he strongly considered putting it off until the man is in a more tepid mood, just so he didn't have to be the one responsible for ruining the atmosphere and putting Father into a mood.

But he couldn't. It had to be done today, or very early tomorrow. Even with time to prepare, Bertie wasn't very good at lying.

Instead, he just sat there, miserable, and opted for the one technique he knows would work.

Blurt it out and hope for the best.

"The Knick offered me a position as a surgical apprentice." Bertie declared abruptly. "I accepted it."

It's a mistake. Bertie, who was not looking up and ergo did not see Father picking up his glass of port, very nearly jumped out of his chair when the man practically inhaled said beverage and immediately choked on it. Clara threw her head up to gape in horror and Mother, at first alarmed but then surprisingly unperturbed, merely turned to her coughing husband with a frown.

"Really, dear-" she sighed. "The tablecloth."

 _The tablecloth!_ Bertie nearly laughed aloud in hysterical panic, but he was too tense and unsure to so much as move, let alone speak. Instead, he sat there, staring into the vague region of the table, watching Father shift in his peripheral and wondering if an intern's wage would allow him to survive alone in New York these days. Some hospitals pay for room and board, right?

Father wrestled some control and, leaning heavily against his armrest, slowly wiped his mouth with his napkin. He's staring at him, Bertie knew, but for all of his desperation to put on a brave face, actually looking his father in the eye was proving to be utterly impossible.

"You did what ?" Father challenged, tone thick with the pre-warning growl that spoke of an imminent shouting at.

Clara meanwhile, smirking and never one to be outdone, stabbed a parsnip with her knife somewhat harder than necessary.


	4. Bertie: Appendectomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie meets Gallinger, experiments on pigs and talks with his mother.
> 
> Trigger warnings for blood and mentions of dead animals (pigs, specifically) and the enthunazaion/putting to sleep of the latter for experimentation.

#### Bertie

##### May 22, 1899

* * *

"Don't upset your father, not now." Mother warned him as she set the table for breakfast, two days later.

She did not look up at Bertie, so realistically this warning could well be for Clara (or maybe the both of them, what with them sharing the same father and each possessing the same tendencies to aggravate the former) but he knew better. Knew better, because he knew Mother, and after twenty-four years of growing up within the strict confines of the household, Bertie knew that anything and everything said in that tone of voice is meant exclusively for him and him alone.

And true enough, Bertie tensed as if it was twenty years ago - or two days ago - and hesitated before he could actually understand why it was he was being warned in the first place.

He paused in the doorway and Clara, blocked out and evidently feeling vindictive in glee at her brother's newfound predicament, discreetly rammed two fingers into his side to get him to move. It was a tried and tested Evil Little Sister tactic, one that never failed to succeed.

Bertie convulsed at the sudden unexpected pain beneath his ribs and scowled at her in wordless admonishment, but nonetheless stepped aside.

"Why?" He asked of Mother instead, ruffled, still half-asleep and feeling very much inclined to make a complete one-eighty and go straight back to bed. He was two days into his internship and already exhausted. "What's wrong now?"

In response she made an amused, knowing noise at the back of her throat, pressing a spoon down onto the tablecloth with the dead-on precision of a well-practised expert. It was either the sarcastic metaphorical _what isn't wrong_ or the _you should know_ _what's wrong_ , and honestly, Bertie cared for little either prospect. Neither of them were anything good.

At least, not for him anyway.

Indeed, two days on from when Bertie first told his family that he'd taken a position under Dr. Thackery, Father had gone from outright rage to... intense exasperation. He'd be back at full force eventually, of course, but Bertie put up with the snide comments and the straight-up dismissal of Thackery being insane and unproper, or both, because he knew that was in no way, at all, the full capacity to which Father could voice his disapproval.

Quite frankly, if Father truly did not tolerate the Knick, Bertie wouldn't be there. After all, Father wouldn't truly deny him a chance to succeed.

He was mad, but not furious and yet just because Bertie could handle his father's ire doesn't mean he strictly wanted to. So he took what little information he had on his Father's current mood and ran with it.

Almost literally.

Mother only had to look at his face once to see his train of thought. She wagged the fork in her hand at him from across the breakfast table.

"You'll eat first."

Bertie shrugged. He'd never willingly go without a meal and she knew it. "Overworked residents with relentless mentors need to eat, I suppose."

Clara sing-songed from her position at her table. "Overworked residents need not to get fat, either."

Bertie recoiled, wounded. Mother tutted at his sister, smacking the back of her hand with a spoon. "Leave your poor brother alone."

But Mother is smiling, and he is smiling, and Clara is smiling, and none of them are being at all serious because at the end of the day, Clara is his sister and his ally and his rival and his greatest accomplice. She teases him because she cares and because he prefers it over strict expectations and hard edged disapproval.

"No fighting at the table, please," Mother warned them, but she's amused, too.

He does admire Mother for it, and at times of this, he's more than glad for her continued presence. He'd never quite grown out of admitting confidences, though over the years the trappings of sentimental, platonic courtship between a mother and her grown boy had given way — as had much of his relationship with his father, which had never been as close. Bertie was too old for all that, now, even while stuck half in and out of late lingering adolescence.

But the quiet appreciation was there. Mother was probably the only person he did not have to prove himself to. Mother only asked of minor redemption and chances — something that would stuff back the acid remarks made about where Bertie's career of soft-heartedness and idealism would end. She only asked, simple and linear: let Bertie succeed, fairly.

She's in his corner, and Bertie truthfully could never thank her enough.

Though he tried, every now and again. When she gave him a napkin, he looked up and said, sincerely. "Thank you."

She squeezed his shoulder as she passed.

* * *

Mother is not the only one. Dr. Everett Gallinger, it turned out, had similar desires. However, his desire to see Bertie grow as a reliable surgeon was more out of a desire for Bertie to both like and rely on him. If somewhat forcibly.

He was introduced to the man that morning. It's a clear, glorious day and apparently, both he and Gallinger have a habit of smoking a quick cigarette before their day shift started.

Such immediately turned into a ritual. Just like that, Dr. Gallinger and Dr. Chickering, every morning on the clock. Eight forty-five for exactly ten minutes, come rain or snow, at the bench in the courtyard. Right up until 1901, until The Incident.

But for now, it's May 21th, 1899, and things are just getting started.

"Philadelphia, right, like Dr. Thackery?" Bertie asked as he shook the man's hand, wary of looking up - and there is a great deal of looking _up_ , he realises with Gallinger - lest he gets blinded by the morning sun. "That's two Penn Med graduates I know now, lucky me."

Gallinger smiled at him. He had a good smile. "Well, we can't all be Columbia boys now, can we?"

"Oh, it'd be insufferable if that was the case," Bertie noted, self-deprecating in his humour and just like that, somehow, he had managed to solidify a newfound friendship in the time it took for him to extract a fresh cigarette and light it.

Well, not a _friendship_. Gallinger wasn't the kind of man Bertie would be drinking with or tossing a fastball at. In fact, none of his actual companions were in the medical profession at all.

Bertie had been friendly with people at Columbia, of course, but none of his classmates were ever his real friends, and while Everett certainly was not a bad sort, he wasn't either. He was completely and utterly unconcerned by Dr. Chickering Jr., to the extent of treating him like a novice — medically and regularly.

Just... friendly. Friendly enough.

Which was something, apparently, that Christensen had feared.

"I'm glad to see you getting along," the man had said, with that infernal knowing half-smile. "Since Thack and I have our hands full, you'll be stuck with one another today. Be sure to keep him near and dear, Gallinger. Where you go, he goes."

"Of course," Galligner had replied, utterly compliant and smiling, too. "Don't you worry. I'll keep an eye on him."

A close working relationship indeed. Stuffiness aside, however, Bertie did like Everett. He was charming and polite, interested in sport and while he was older - married and likely on the road of starting a family soon - they were accepting of one another.

It felt, though he had no real way of knowing, that it might be what having an older brother could be like.

Which was a stroke of luck. Often there was resentment when it came to sharing a mentor. Competitiveness and ambitious dealings were common, and rivalries often soon followed. It was the one area where being affable and inoffensive (and yes, shorter) worked in Bertie's favour.

After all, nobody got mad when the little guy said, 'don't get mad at me'.

"Thack wants us to start dismantling McBurney's incision by improving upon the Thackery point," Gallinger informed him, sometime around noon. "Which means that Thack has already found a way to improve and he wants us to spend all day trying to come to the same conclusion on our own."

Judging by the look on his face, he seemed to have already decided on Bertie's behalf that they will both be undertaking this task, and now.

Bertie looked down at his scattered papers and wondered if he'd be too tired tonight to write up his notes later on, since there was no chance of doing it now. Setting a new routine was hard, and it would be harder under Thackery — who apparently had nothing of the sort. He was supposed to be on the ward in fifteen minutes, but he was also unsure as to how the authority worked and therefore hesitated, perhaps too obviously.

If Thackery told Everett to do this, with Bertie then... Well. Bertie had always made a habit of doing as he was told.

Aware that Gallinger was looking at him, Dr. Chickering nodded.

"Appendectomy study?" He asked. What he really wanted to ask if this is normal, if they should be just doing this, but he couldn't get the words out, and so just sputtered out something else instead. "What about Semm's theory?"

"It's rather outdated, don't you think?"

"I guess," Bertie admitted, and that is how his day truly started, learning how to humanely euthanize an animal and then how to ruthlessly experiment on said animal (which, with their carless hacking and mistakes and the sheer amount of blood, makes him thankful that this is an animal and not an actual human cadaver) while ruining the pages of at least six different books and ripping a dozen pages out of various journals with their bloody fingers.

Either way, it ends up with Bertie's left hand getting stuck to a page on _History of Appendicitis Vermiformsis and it's Diseases and T_ _reatment_. Physically stuck, as he leans against the table to grab a reference text only to find that the hand he is leaning on suddenly fixed to paper.

"This cannot be the optimal way to do research," Bertie grumbled as he pulled his hand free from the page and marvelled at the handprint left behind.

Everett actually laughed. "If you find a better way, be sure to let me know. Eleanor would be horrified if she knew what I got myself into here."

"But if Dr. Thackery already potentially knows the answer isn't it... wasteful?" Bertie countered the lack of argument as Everett plucked the book out of his hand.

"It is," the man agreed with a lazy shrug. "But Dr. Christensen has some agreement with the Head of the Board of Directors; he gets everything he wants, even replacement material, which means that Thack can put us through the wringer in aid of expanding our minds and nobody cares."

Then he smiled, despite the disappointing lack of success so far.

"And as for these poor subjects," Gallinger slapped one - of the six - pigs on the side affectionately. "They won't go to waste and tonight we can all sit and be amazed when Thack finally makes us see the light, so why force the matter?"

Why indeed? Bertie wiped his hands against the front of his gown and got back to it.

And when his father finally caught him the hallway later that evening, hooking one finger around the back of his suspenders to drag him back so that the man might point out the bloody fingerprint on the back of his collar — a quarter of an inch below where he'd ran his hand across his neck in frustration while searching for a reference made in 18-whatever, Bertie couldn't keep a straight face.

Crazy? Yes, Father is probably right on that account.

But pointless...? Bertie considered the mangle of papers on his desk and the hidden, unspoken knowledge that he wasn't entirely off base — that his own ideas weren't _that_ far from Thackery's in the end, and thought otherwise.


	5. Bertie - June 13, 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie suffers an accident and meets Cornelia Robertson. At the same time.
> 
> Mentions, without going into major detail, some minor injury with mentions to blood.

#### Bertie

##### June 13, 1899

* * *

There are two instances in which Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr. will suffer a workplace injury. The first in 1899, the other a year and a bit later.

But this is 1899, twenty-three days into his residency, and stifling. Hot enough that Bertie, who doesn't do well in any sort of temperature regardless if hot or cold, has to be rid of both suit jacket and waistcoat to be even the slightest less irritated — and then, that is far cry from actually _comfortable_.

Everett, meanwhile, was somehow fine. Completely, utterly. Fine.

Fine enough to stand around smoking as if neither of them weren't about to spontaneously combust at any moment, but then he'd told Bertie that he goes out to sail at all times of year, even in the coldest months in the North Atlantic. Neither extremes bother him, much.

They bother Bertie.

So when Everett offered him a cigarette that morning before they head inside, as is their custom, Bertie was at odds. He knew better than to turn down an offered cigarette, but even though it was still early the humidity in this part of town was disgusting. And besides, Everett smoked some Duke brand that he didn't like.

It could be easy for him to say that. Just decline and go inside.

But, well. Bertie was at his core a man who inspired to please, so instead of moving off into the far cooler interiors of the Knick, he stood out in the dusty courtyard with Everett and smoked - his own, not Everett's, he had to draw the line somewhere - as fast as he could without hyperventilating.

It is only when Bertie was two-thirds of his way finished that he realised Everett was lagging behind. The man sat on the bench before the hedge, their customary spot, and dragged slowly, looking vaguely off at the building.

It was nearly five-to when Bertie finally crushed his out under his foot and shifted around in an attempt to display his impatience without actually appearing so. When that didn't work, he took out his watch and squinted at it.

"We better get going," he said, neutrally.

Everett snapped his head at him as if Bertie had just walked up to him and slapped him across the face.

The image was amusing, but Bertie was too overheated to appreciate it. He put his watch back in its pocket and shrugged. "Six to eight."

"Oh," Dr Gallinger put his own cigarette out as he stood. Quickly, like a startled jack in the box. "Sorry, Bertie. Lost track of time."

He added a few seconds later as if bursting to give context.

"Eleanor's been sick. I'm rather tired."

Dr. Chickering did not know how to respond to that, exactly. Obviously, a _sorry_ or _that's too bad_ would be in order, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate. Everett's body language was all strange. Normally he was relaxed, at ease; right in the middle of their team and therefore secure as a consequence, more bemused about the day's impending chaos than concerned, and he only ever got tense on the rare occasion.

And this was nothing like his usual grievances, which could range from the bizarrely simple, like discovering that they both had the same diploma, to the more understandable, like a sudden change in technique in the theatre because _Thack just wants to try something, please_. The man reached a foot out, kicked a stray stone and settled for looking wistful.

"We think she's pregnant." He said then, and never before had Bertie been so happy to not say _sorry_ or _that's too bad_ in his life.

That being said, he also doesn't know what to say otherwise.

"Oh," he settles on. "Congratulations, then. That's wonderful news."

And he meant that, he did. Only Bertie doesn't entirely understand. He understood why Everett would be shocked, happy and concerned, but it was also something that just did not come along too often in his day to day interactions for him to be... aware.

It seemed to be the right course of action, though. Everett did indeed look pleased; pleased that Bertie approved or just pleased in general, he did not know, but pleased nonetheless.

And that was about as much as Bertie could gather. Granted, he was a physician — he understood the clinical technicalities, but he was also twenty-four and blissfully free from the trappings of so-called proper adulthood and therefore did not quite get the unbridled nature of it all. None of his friends - his outside ones, his real ones - who spent their days fleshing out their newfound careers and playing Saturday baseball or shooting pool were married or had children. Certainly, Bertie thought, none of them were strictly thinking about it either.

Bertie wasn't. Not really. Father pressed it upon him frequently, but that was normal griping, like getting a haircut or fitted for a new shirt collar and therefore no real emergency. He'd only had one intimate experience with the whole affair back when Clara came along, when he was seven. When he was old enough, smart enough, and enough of his father's son to know what that meant, having grown up with relative free reign of the practice in Columbia, but also not being old enough to do anything about it either way.

Truly, he felt the same way about it now as he did back then.

Good for them.

Now it is time to go inside.

"Ginter's. You smoke Ginter's." Everett glanced at him as they passed through the front doors.

Bertie pulled an amused face, removing his hat - both of them doing so at the same time, with a sort of synchrony that felt comfortable - and blinking into the dim room before him. Dark unsure shapes quickly became people, and they soon became recognisable faces. Nurses and doctors nodded and smiled, pleasantries are exchanged and all in all, it felt good, the impending wave of unrelenting heat or not.

"What about them? I like them well enough." What Bertie meant was he liked the cards that came with them — had a full collection of the baseball ones of which he had obsessively borrowed - stolen really - from his father and friends over the years, but that seemed embarrassing to admit, so he didn't. "And Father gets them in cartons, so I'm supplied as needed."

"Economics." Everett rumbled.

"Perhaps there is a career in it somewhere," Bertie noted, absently. Like a lot of people in his social strata, he'd grown up with very narrowed career prospects. Doctor or lawyer and God help him if he dared chose the latter, for anything and everything else was unthinkable.

Bertie smiled at the absurdity of it, and looked up at Everett as they made for the double doors on the left. "But then I guess-"

And then it hit him.

This was not some figure of speech, an archaic cliched line of which Bertie had memorized with the accuracy of an elephant - there's one - but instead something quite genuine. It hit him. Hard.

The door, that is.

The first time Bertie sees Cornelia Robertson working at the Knick, she pushes the door open as he is leaning forward to grab it from the other side, summarily clipping him square in the face and borderline knocking him unconscious. Not quite. But close enough.

Enough for him to get smacked back onto the floor and to phase out for a moment or two. He hadn't felt like he'd properly blacked out, but he must've because the last thing he remembered before it... _happening_... was him standing upright and seeing something moving in his peripheral.

Then came the pain.

And now, there was more pain, but this was duller, lingering, and he was somehow on the floor. Not for long. Everett was at his aid immediately, looming above him, ever-present.

"Oh dear." It sounded ordinary and acceptable. Like something he'd hear at home. Oh dear. Uh oh. Easy there. Good gracious. "You okay? Here, come on. Get up."

Everett pulled him up onto his feet with one single tug by the forearm and as Bertie stood there, stunned and staggering slightly, a little confused and punchdrunk with sudden vertigo, the older doctor handed him something light and smooth. Dr. Chickering knew what to do with it instinctively.

He did not carry handkerchiefs himself - there was no surer way to make Father cringe - but Bertie held it to his face anyway, pressing his nose between his thumb and index finger. It hurt.

Nothing crunching or cracking, no crepitation, thank God, so he was sure it wasn't broken. Bertie gasped though the pain as Everett, casual-like, firmly pat his arms and back down as if dusting him off, and tried to go through the usual motions.

Basic aid, he thought; simple medical solutions to simple problems. Lean forward, breathe through the mouth — drain the blood down the nose instead of the back of the throat. Stay up, for laying down causes blood pressure in the nasal canal. Discourage further bleeding, Chickering. There we go. Good man.

It's better than _Oh Dear_ at any rate.

Someone set their fingers on his forearm and Bertie automatically brought the unoccupied hand up and away, chest-height as he does in the theatre. Then he blinked, and followed the delicate gloved fingers up to that of their owner and despaired. Cornelia Robertson was wearing a finely made forest-green dress and looking greatly concerned. At him. Him and his bleeding face.

It's all rather embarrassing.

Bertie knew Cornelia indirectly. As in, Father's oldest brother's wife, the aunt Bertie has perhaps seen three or four times in his entire life, is sister to Cornelia's mother's youngest sister's husband — whoever the heck he happens to be, and it's _that_ kind of indirectly.

They don't know each other, not really. They're familiar in the sense that they've seen each other's face, once or twice, in certain circles. Circles that Bertie only walked in when he was tagging along with his parents, certain society dinners. The kind of circles that Father, a former cavalry surgeon, would rather - and Bertie can quote him on this - walk out into the wilds and kick a sleeping bear than deign to suffer, and therefore avoided like the plague.

Hey, look. There's another one.

"Oh, it's okay. It's okay, no harm done." Bertie said to her unheard question, then immediately shut his mouth upon feeling it filling with the sharp metallic pang of his own blood. He needed the washroom. One shouldn't swallow their own blood if they could help it.

"Well, I'm not entirely certain about that," Cornelia said, gently, but her eyes were alive with that classic disbelief of those unaccustomed to downplaying injury.

It would be amusing if not also mortifying. She apologised again, and Bertie found himself trapped in a furious non-debate of amends and recurrences.

"You couldn't have known-"

"- I know but I-"

"-Really it's okay-"

"-Yes, but I should have checked before-"

"I think we should get you looked at." Everett cut in curly after a good ten seconds of them getting nowhere and regarded Cornelia, all easy smiles and grace. "Don't you worry Miss Robertson. Dr. Chickering is a tough customer."

 _I wouldn't say that_. Bertie thought, but by this point, opening his mouth would be a mistake.

Cornelia looked at him a little more strongly, like she finally managed to put a name to a face. Bertie, at least, never had that problem. Never really had. He tried to smile despite not being able to remove the handkerchief away from his face and looked around for the hat he'd dropped.

Everett had it. The older doctor made no move to hand it over, which was probably for the best.

"Well, I better let you get cleaned up." Cornelia sighed, gave him a pat on the forearm again, and looked at Everett. "I'll see you two around, I'm sure. And I'm sorry, Dr. Chickering. Really."

Bertie made a semblance of a noise that was supposed to be one of acceptance.

"Of course," Everett translated, utterly unfazed.

And he tells Bertie as much, once the latter is cleaned up, properly examined - it's really nothing, and it's not like Bertie was much of a bleeder anyway - and they're finally ready to start the workday, twenty minutes late.

Apparently, this wasn't at all shocking. If anything, it was a regular occurrence.

"The nosebleeds?"

"Oh God no, Chickering. The Inelegance. Welcome to the Circus."

And suffice to say, when Thackery finally graced them with his presence and saw the damage, it was pretty much exactly the same response.

"Oh dear." He remarked, eyes smiling. "Just another Tuesday at the Knick, I see."


End file.
